Paradise
by Grey Silverstone
Summary: Not even Dean's dreams are safe anymore. Not really. And what if it's not his anymore? Because the real Cas is gone, right? So it doesn't matter what happens.


**(insert the usual disclaimer here, i.e., Supernatural is not mine)**

**Summary: **_Not even Dean's dreams are safe anymore. Not really. And what if it's not his anymore? Because the real Cas is gone, right? So it doesn't matter what happens._

(Short version: Dean dreams about Cas.)

So, in this, Cas is missing, presumed dead; it's not placed very specifically, so... there you go.

R&R?

_Written to Coldplay's 'Paradise.'_

* * *

><p><strong>Paradise<strong>

Dean only knows he's asleep because nothing hurts.

All the aches and pains he wracks up daily, the bruised ribs and cut fingers, the goose-eggs and the fractures, they're all gone. Not numb, there's not sleepy, slow feeling involved, just… _gone_. It's peace. It's fake and ridiculous, but it's peace.

He leans up against the Impala. His baby's parked outside a low house, an indistinct parking lot behind him. He can see the stars. He breathes, slowly, pretends he's breathing in those little pinpricks of light. _God_, this feels amazing.

Oh. Okay. Not everything is gone. The word 'God' still sends a wicked twinge through his muscles. Even when he's sleeping, his hands ball up into fists and everything tenses. It's hard to believe that the word 'God' carries hell in its syllable.

And then there's a noise he recognizes.

The barest flap of wings, and he closes his eyes. No. _No_. It's time to wake up now, Dean. Wake up. Wake_ up_.

"Dean."

_Wake the fuck up_.

It's not working.

Dean opens his eyes, tries to keep his expression as still as possible. "Castiel," he says stiffly, because that's who it is, ragged, bags black under his eyes. "Or is it still 'God.'"

"Castiel," the angel-again says, proper as always. Dean takes a second to just _look_. It's _his _head. He takes in the way the shoulders stoop, the torn shirt and ragged tie, the stubble. The bruises around his eyes and the cut on his jaw and the one over his eye. But Ca—_he _doesn't look hurt. He just looks as impassive as ever, staring up at Dean, emotionless. The bastard.

Dean's eyes aren't stinging.

You can't cry in the middle of a dream.

"Why are you in my head?" he manages to bite out, digging his fingers into his leg.

"I—" he could almost laugh, Cas looks so lost for words. And then he bites the inside of his cheek, because he hasn't gone from Castiel to Cas yet, and he sure as _hell _doesn't deserve it. "I came to—"

"Are you real?" Dean asks. It seems ridiculous to have to ask, but this Castiel is so much more solid, more lost, more _human_ than his—than the Castiel he dreams of.

Cas just narrows his eyes, head cocked like a bird. "I'm Castiel."

"No—are you _real_. Are you the real Cas, or is this just another dream." _Am I just dreaming of you_? Dean tries not think about how pathetically chick-flick that sounds.

But Cas is shaking his head, answering nothing. "I don't understand your question."

Dean shoves off from the Impala and walks towards him, because Cas—his Cas, he doesn't know about this one—had no knowledge of personal space anyways, and he'd be able to tell who this Cas was if he was breathing his air.

He doesn't stop until they're nose to nose, and even then he pushes it a little, so all they'd need was a push and they'd be touching. "Who," Dean says carefully, balling his hands up against his legs because, damn it, he's tired of the _shaking_. He's just _tired_. "Who are you?"

"I—I came to talk to you, Dean. I promised—" Dean's always been fast, even more so, apparently, when things are too much. Before Cas can get his sentence out, he has his hands planted against his chest and shoves, twice, _hard_, and Cas crumples to the floor.

"Shut _up_," Dean spits harshly, and, god so help him, if Cas stood up again and started talking, he'd hit him right in that pretty angel mouth. He doesn't want to hear it. "Just shut up, Cas. Get the hell out of my head."

Even though he fell like it hurt, Cas just looks up at him, calm as anything, head still tipped slightly, eyes still too open, too obviously not human. "You dream of me."

It's not a question. Dean snorts. "No," he lies. "Why would I? I don't dream of stupid bastards who _don't listen_, not even to—" Not even to who? Who was he? He certainly wasn't Cas's _family_, he'd made that clear enough. He can't have been a friend, could he? Or he'd have been able to stop… to do… to do _something. _

"Dean—" His angel speed is, apparently, still intact, because he is, once again, standing too close to Dean, his hands on his shoulders. "I'm the one who—"

"Raised me from perdition? Say it, I dare you. Say it. I will hit you _so hard_, you—"

"Messed up," Cas says softly, wincing at the force behind Dean's voice, and it's sure as hell not guilt that Dean feels clenching at the bottom of his stomach. He doesn't deserve that. "And I'm sorry. I said that I'd make amends—"

"Well, you _can't_, can you? You're _dead_. You _stupid bastard_. You're _dead_." You're not supposed to be able to cry in your dreams. You're not. But they're coming, and Dean can't help it, and somewhere above, a cloud breaks and cries with him, drenching them through.

"But I'm not—" Cas stops, perplexed. "I can't have… Dean."

Cas drops his hands, awkward and lost, like the angel Dean knew Before, and Dean could maybe laugh if everything wasn't so goddamn screwed up. "I'm sorry," Cas breathes, like he knows that it isn't enough. And it sure as hell isn't.

Cas takes as step back, out into the little dirt patch, in a pool of light cast by the little house. He spreads his arms. "Hit me, then. Do… whatever you do when I'm here. When you dream of me." The last part is barely there, and Dean can see Cas tasting the words, not sure how they're supposed to feel.

"I'm not going to hit you," Dean says, and the fatigue he feels inside his own head is astounding.

"You want to do _something_—"

"Yeah, well, it's sure as hell not hitting you. Just leave, Cas. _Please_."

Cas doesn't listen. He doesn't know why it surprises him. And maybe it doesn't, but that's one thing that's always been Cas's constant. He always leaves.

Only, this? This isn't leaving. This is Cas, walking up to him, backing him into the side of the Impala, and pinning him there by his shoulders, looking more lost than seems appropriate for an angel of the Lord, or whatever the hell he is now.

"Dean. I'm trying."

So Dean tries, too. Or, stops trying. Whatever you call hooking his fingers into the back of Cas's hair and pulling him down to his mouth and trying to ignore the utterly wrecked sound that breaks its way past his throat.

He presses his lips to Cas's, and the angel is still too stunned to function, so he bites down at his bottom lip, maybe a little harder than necessary. But the gasp that follows is enough to let him run his tongue past said lips, and he pretends, for a moment, that this works.

And then it registers that this isn't how it usually goes, and that this is the real Cas, and this is the _real Cas_.

Shit.

Dean rips himself away and shoves Cas back, cursing and swiping the back of his hand across his mouth. What was that? Since when is it… how did he… _why_?

"Dean—" Cas's eyes are hollow black pupils, and he's looking at Dean from a few steps away, eyes wide and mouth half-open. "Did you—"

Dean feels himself flush to his hairline, and his mouth opens and closes twice before a semblance of sound can come out. "_No_. Don't even—Cas, get out of my head!" But the thing is, the way he's looking at Dean carries all sorts of wonder, and Dean is wondering himself at how different kissing the real thing is, and how it would feel to do it again.

"You thought I was dead," Cas says, slowly, and it's damn near painful to watch the hand that comes up to rub at the slightly chapped lips. "What if I am in the morning?"

There goes whatever Dean was wondering. He turns away sharply. He doesn't need to hear this.

And then there are hands at his shoulders, spinning him around so that his car's doorknob is digging into his spine, and there are hands on either side of his face, holding him still as a mouth closes over his.

It's hotter than he expected, Cas's mouth. It's hot and wet and open, and it clings to Dean's like neither of them have to breath, and there's no way in _hell _that Dean's complaining about this. There are still tears on his cheeks, and they're soaked through, but the skin under Cas's shirt is dry and warm when Dean gets his hands under there, Cas fumbling at Dean's belt, his hands and his mouth and the noises his makes when Dean runs his nails down his back.

And then they're together in every way but one, and he's taking Dean against the side of the Impala, and Dean has his teeth pressed into Cas's bare shoulder to stop the noises from getting any louder. He still cries out, though, and Cas digs his fingers into his hips, and he pulls back, for a moment, trying to catch his eye.

"_Cas_," he pants, and when Cas's eyes meet his, they're dark and half-lidded and damn near feral, and he almost loses it there. "I just… never change. Never again."

Cas continues moving, and every time he gets closer, he takes Dean's mouth in his, but now Dean pulls back. He needs something else. "_Promise me, Cas_."

"I—I promise," Cas whispers back, and they're gone. When they lose it completely, lightning turns everything white, and Dean presses as many kisses as he can along his shoulder, arm, neck, lips, cheeks, eyes.

"_Cas_," he whispers, but when he opens his eyes this time, it's not to Cas's skin and a stormy night, but empty sheets and watery sunlight. But he has something to hold onto, besides the wet eyes and wet spot.

_Soon_, he'd said. That he's coming back.

Dean closes his eyes again, and he's not crying. Not even if a few of the raindrops slip out from under closed lids.


End file.
